Christmas Star (Contemporary, Romance) (7 page)

He stopped on the first floor to dig out his keys. Outside the rain was no longer just a drizzle. It was a downpour. Traffic crawled. So what would the lady in question do, he wondered, if he grabbed a sandwich at the deli he’d seen nearby and just dropped in on her at lunchtime?

The harder it rained, the more appeal the idea held.

The deli was crowded. Clay placed his order, took the number they gave him and wandered through the packed tables into an attached flower shop that was all decked out for the holidays. The bright red poinsettias had originally attracted him, but he paused to touch the petals of a peach-colored rose that seemed out of place among the cedar and pine. Its petals looked lush and soft—like Starr Lederman’s skin.

Flushing, he stepped back and glanced around to see if anyone noticed his odd reaction. Then, sidestepping the display, he turned the corner and promptly stumbled over an entire bucket of those same flesh-colored blooms. Clay stared at them for what seemed an endless moment—until he realized someone had announced his number over a loudspeaker.

It felt like a reprieve. Clay found it much easier to deal with a pastrami-and-provolone than these uncharacteristic emotions involving Starr Lederman that sucker-punched him at inopportune times.

Which was why it made not a lick of sense when, after paying for his sandwich, he wound up buying two of the roses.

A cheerful clerk wrapped them in waxy paper with stalks of some wispy white stuff and a sprig of Christmas greenery. All this for a woman he didn’t even like.

As Clay inched through noon-hour traffic headed for Starr’s building, he gave up questioning his impulsive action and just accepted it. He’d already parked, climbed out and was wondering idly why anyone chose to live in the city when he saw her dashing through the rain toward a waiting cab. She wasn’t alone. Her fingers were linked with those of some skinny guy with a receding hairline and horn-rimmed glasses.

Clay suffered a swift feeling of betrayal. Anger nipped at its heels.

Calling himself all kinds of a fool for standing in the rain holding a wet bouquet like some idiot teenager, Clay tossed the flowers and the sack with his sandwich into a nearby trash receptacle. Then he yanked open the door and climbed back in, staring furiously out the windshield.

Like hell she was eating lunch at her desk today.

He watched the couple’s taxi pull out onto a rain-slick street. Hands unsteady, he jammed the key into the ignition, started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot behind them.

Lie to him, would she?

Did Harrison know how she spent her lunch hours?

Somehow Clay doubted he did.

Well, wouldn’t little Miss Lying-through-her-teeth Lederman be shocked when he broke up her noon-hour quickie?

S
TARR PAID
the cabdriver and dashed after Dr. Stanley Ellsworth between parked cars and through the rain into a trendy new restaurant. She glanced at the ice blue Christmas trees with their crystal cherubs as she shed her dripping coat and smoothed her wet hair. It was time to engage in another round of verbal sparring with her colleague.

“Stanley, I need six serum-test kits and three extra packs of vials. You said Mr. Jensen explained I was going on special assignment—so why give me a hard time?”

Her companion removed his glasses and wiped them clean of rain spots. “Two!” Instead of answering Starr, he wiggled two fingers at a harried hostess, who nodded and beckoned them to a second room. Starr stopped to hang her coat on a heavily laden rack.

Stanley waited impatiently beside the booth. After she slid in, he took a seat opposite and picked up the argument where they’d left off. “The media base you’ve requested is strictly for mammals, Starr. Your area is the harbor.” His lips turned down in something of a pout. Starr opened her menu. “I deserve to be let in on the secret, don’t you think?”

Frankly Starr had never dreamed that someone of Stanley’s professional stature would act like a spoiled child.

His brown eyes, made larger by the thick glasses, blinked owlishly at her until he gave up and opened his menu. “Yikes! You didn’t tell me this charming little eatery would cost me a week’s salary. I’m not in the same league as your senator friend—who, by the way, called twice before you got in today.”

“Senator McLeod called? Why didn’t you tell me?”

He shrugged. “You were so late arriving at the lab I forgot.”

“I cleared being late with Mr. Jensen.”

“Did I say you hadn’t? My, we’re touchy. Is that because you missed Mr. Bigwig’s call? Or because I griped about the prices?”

“You’re the one throwing a fit, Stanley. Over giving me the gel-plates. Will it make you happier if I buy lunch?”

“Maybe. I still want to know what you’re doing that’s so hush-hush.”

Starr closed her menu and put it aside. “The senator didn’t say anything was wrong, did he? I mean...” She lowered her voice and darted a nervous glance around the room. But she didn’t expect to see anyone she knew, so her gaze skipped over a dark-haired man seated alone in a nearby booth. Suddenly her gaze darted back, and Starr found herself locked in a glaring duel with Barclay McLeod. She sucked in a breath.

Stanley turned to see who or what had caught Starr’s attention. His search got only as far as a half-filled old-fashioned glass lifted toward them in mock salute. “Who’s that?” he asked.

“Who do you mean?” Starr buried her nose in the menu and feigned nonchalance.

“The fellow in the corner booth. I’m quite certain I’ve never seen him before.” Stanley adjusted his glasses. “Disagreeable character, if you ask me. One of those macho cowboy types that women fall all over.” He stiffened and hastily corrected himself. “Except you, Starr. You’re more levelheaded.”

Starr angled another glance at the corner. Guiltily she remembered saying she’d be eating at her desk. For one wild moment Starr considered dashing over to explain about the sheep and the gel-plates. But of course she couldn’t. She’d given her word not to.

Fortunately a waitress zipped over to fill their coffee cups and to take their order. Her timely arrival kept Starr from making a fool of herself. She caught Stanley’s eye. “Order light. I need to get back to work.” Starr ordered a cup of soup and a turkey sandwich while Stanley continued to peruse the menu. “Oh, and put both orders on my check,” she added.

The waitress nodded, then turned to Stanley. Before he made his request, Starr sneaked another peek at the corner. Clay was watching her the way a cobra eyes a mouse.

“I, for one, do not plan on rushing,” Stanley informed Starr. “You dragged me away from work, Now I intend to enjoy every morsel. Especially since you’re paying.” He calmly ordered a three-course meal.

The waitress left and Stanley gathered up Starr’s drumming fingers. “Does the odd way you’re acting have anything to do with the full moon, love?”

“Full moon?” Starr shook her hand loose and with a nervous laugh said, “Stanley, I swear...”

Seemingly satisfied at gaining her attention, Dr. Ellsworth sat back and hefted his coffee cup. All at once he squinted over the edge and frowned. “That fellow, Starr—he’s watching you. You must know him.”

“I don’t,” she lied smoothly. It wasn’t her fault Clay McLeod had decided to spend the day playing I spy.

“Maybe you two met at one of your mother’s parties,” Stanley muttered. “He looks like the kind of weirdos Patrice has hanging around.”

“He doesn’t look weird!” Starr regretted her outburst immediately. For Pete’s sake, now she was defending him. Thank goodness a waitress had stopped at his table. Starr didn’t dare let Stanley catch her looking that way again.

Except that the pretty blond waitress lingered too long, talking and laughing with him. Starr’s mood turned dark as the weather.

Tossing her head, she crossed her legs and pumped her foot. Why did she care who Barclay McLeod chose to flirt with? Let the man fan his peacock tail at ditzy blondes. She, for one, had more important things to do—like talking Stanley out of those gel-plates so that she could save a herd of sheep.

* * *

C
LAY JOKED WITH
the friendly waitress to take his mind off the disturbing woman seated across the room. He declined coffee and ordered scotch and water while waiting for his steak. Normally he didn’t touch liquor this early in the day, but Starr Lederman made him crazy.

He should have gone back to the apartment the minute it became apparent Starr and the boyfriend weren’t destined for a motel. Vanessa had no doubt fixed lunch. Not that he owed his sister-in-law any explanations for his absence; he didn’t. The guilt nagged more because Clay knew she worried. How many evenings had she watched out the window for a husband who never showed? Waited by the phone for calls that never came?

Clay had seen the number of times she choked back tears.

He could hear Starr laughing. It didn’t look as if
she
worried about anything. Was that what Harrison found so appealing about her? Since his brother was such a
busy
man. Ha!

Clay’s gaze skipped past the chatty waitress to the table across the room—where he could see Starr’s rose-tipped fingers entwined with her partner’s. As she pulled playfully free, Clay’s stomach felt as if it’d been drop-kicked downfield.

Hell, he knew what qualities appealed to his brother. The same qualities that appealed to him. The woman was warm, funny, touchable. Dammit, if Clay didn’t watch his step, she’d snare him, too.

Somebody, he thought, should warn that poor devil she was with to hold on to his wallet.

Clay drained his glass and set it down with a thump. He didn’t owe a stranger advice. What he needed was to go call Vanessa, set her mind at ease. Taking leave of the waitress, Clay patted his hip pocket to assure himself his own wallet was still there.

He was very glad to have it back. The wallet had been a gift from Morgan last Christmas. It was the first present the kid had picked out all by himself. Sadness for his brother’s son gripped him for a moment. Morgan was an intense boy who felt everything deeply; he’d be upset if he knew his school picture had been stolen.

Clay frowned as he punched out the numbers. If only he had some idea why Starr would heist pictures. He thought about the ones she’d left. A worn black-and-white of his parents on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. A small wedding photo of Harrison and Vanessa—but of course she’d leave
that.

He had other pictures of Morgan, but he liked the missing picture best. In it, the boy’s blond hair had been mussed, and a rare grin showed a missing tooth. Van wanted him to wear suits and look like a little man. She had refused to buy the school packet of photographs, so Clay had slipped him the money.

Harrison should have handled that incident, not him. But Harris was never around. He hadn’t even made it to the ranch last Christmas. Claimed he was tied up with important state business. Yeah, right.

Telling Vanessa goodbye, Clay went back to his seat. Damn, he didn’t like thinking his brother had lied. Clay glowered at Starr. Now-untamed curls framed a face kissed by a smattering of freckles. He didn’t let himself remember another place she had freckles; instead, he made himself concentrate on her eyes. Strangely iridescent irises shimmered around smoky centers and somehow intensified her look of innocence. Did knowing she
wasn’t
innocent make her more exciting?

Watching her now, Clay was forced to admit he found her exciting for other reasons. She was beautiful, yet seemingly indifferent to the fact. He ran a hand around a suddenly restrictive collar. Why should indifference in a woman make her alluring?

Clay hadn’t the foggiest notion, but it did.

Men, now, weren’t so subtle. At least
he
wasn’t. So why didn’t he go ask lover boy if he knew he was just one man in a long line of suckers?

Clay slid out of the booth again and wove his way through the tables.

Having made up her mind to ignore the younger McLeod, Starr sat with her back to the room. “What do you suppose is taking them so long to fix a simple soup and sandwich?” she muttered. “I have a ton of reports to file. If my food doesn’t come soon, I’m leaving.”

Stanley unfolded his napkin and polished his silverware.

“Are you going to get me those serum-test kits?” Starr demanded as if they hadn’t talked about several subjects since that one.

“You missed the whole point, Starr. My reluctance has to do with the odd way you’re acting.” Stanley laughed. “I mean, who’d trust you with a secret? Look at you. A bundle of nerves. What are you building with your silverware? A pen for your bighorn sheep?”

Starr dropped the knife she was threading through the tines of a fork, which formed a triangle with her spoon. “Who said anything about sheep?”

“I have your equipment list, Starr. Dart gun, big-game marking tags coded for San Jacinto. It hardly takes a genius to add things up.” He looked sullen. “If this is about getting your doctorate, why the big ruse?”

Clay skulked behind a waitress who came to deliver Starr’s lunch. He found the tidbit about San Jacinto very enlightening, and lingered in hopes of hearing more.

Starr accepted her order. Not the cup of soup she’d asked for, but a bowl. She weighed the value of sending it back to be corrected as Stanley pondered which dressing to use on his salad. Deciding not to make a fuss, she said, “It has nothing to do with my doctorate, Stanley. I thought Mr. Jensen explained.”

“Bunk and rubbish!” With a vicious stab, Stanley spiked lettuce, tomato and a large mushroom all at once.

Fascinated, Starr watched him lift the fork toward his mouth. She held her breath until it met its goal. Closing her eyes, she counted to ten.

Clay continued to lag within earshot.

Stanley patted his lips with his napkin. “I made some inquiries and couldn’t find anyone at U Berkeley who’s heard of this project.” He waved his fork under her nose. “If you got someone to pull strings so you can start compiling data for your thesis, you’re nuts.”

Starr’s jaw was set in a stubborn line. “I doubt you’ve spoken to every single person at U Berkeley, Stanley,” she drawled sarcastically. “Believe me, I know what I’m doing.” The words were barely out of her mouth when a dark blur materialized in her peripheral vision. She dropped her spoon, and soup flew everywhere as Clay McLeod slid into the booth beside her.

“What’s this I hear?” he asked with deceptive smoothness. “You’re planning a jaunt to my neck of the woods? Funny, you didn’t mention it this morning.”

Someone who didn’t know him might think his interest casual. Starr was close enough to feel the underlying hum of his anger. She should protest—but she felt confused, her thoughts disordered. Arguments, answers, clever comebacks—she couldn’t produce even one. This man had a way of reducing her to a mindless amoebic mass. Not only that, Harrison would expect her to throw him offtrack. To erect roadblocks. Denial, however, stuck in Starr’s throat, making breathing next to impossible.

“I thought you said you didn’t know this man,” Stanley accused as he speared a huge radish rosette.

Starr’s breath escaped like steam from boiling water. “He’s no friend, believe me,” she managed at last. “Ignore him, Stanley. Maybe he’ll take the hint and leave.” She deliberately picked up her sandwich and took a bite.

Clay smiled benignly, stuck out a broad, tanned hand and clasped the doctor’s smooth, pale one in a bone-crushing grip.

Stanley’s eyes bugged behind his glasses. Then both men turned to look at Starr. Stanley’s gaze was hurt and challenging; Clay’s slumberous and faintly mocking.

“This—”
Clay arched a brow “—is Stanley Stud?” His amused voice caused diners all around to stop eating and stare.

Stanley issued an ill-concealed oath.

Starr felt truly skewered on a barb of her own making—or rather, her daughter’s making. Too late she realized she shouldn’t have lied to Stanley.

His glare swung from the intruder to Starr and back again. Angrily he threw his napkin across his salad plate. But his tie got tangled in the folds and ended up landing in the Russian dressing, too.

Starr’s eyes widened as she watched an oily red stain seep through the fine linen napkin into the elegant silk of Stanley’s tie. Her colleague was nothing if not fastidious about his attire. She winced.

Stanley gingerly untied the offending article and let it drop. “I’d say you know him, all right,” he growled. “It’s not enough that you let that wretched, uncivilized little wharf hoodlum insult me to my face. Now you allow her insolence to be passed on to your...friends.”

“SeLi is not a hoodlum.” Furious, Starr struggled to stand, but Clay’s large body didn’t allow it. “Stanley, wait,” she said when he started to slide from the booth.

“Let him go,” Clay advised. “I’ll give you a lift back to the office.”

A waitress arrived just then with Stanley’s main course.